WEEKENDS— Chapter Three

Caleb was already across the lawn by the time I whispered “Wait!”

Too late, he was up the steps, bare feet slapping on the concrete porch, that grin on his face like he was untouchable. The rest of us crouched behind the hedge across the street, hearts pounding.

He rang the bell.

Once. Twice.

Then bolted.

He jumped the step rail and hit the grass running, feet barely making a sound, his laughter caught halfway in his throat. We scrambled to make room as he dove back into the bushes beside us.

“Anyone see?” he panted.

Shane shushed him. “Wait—wait—”

The porch light flicked on.

Frank Dorel stepped out a second later. He wasn’t yelling, he wasn’t even looking around. Just stood there, blinking at the empty porch like he couldn’t remember why he’d come out in the first place. His T-shirt was stained, coffee maybe, and his sweatpants sagged low at the waist. He scratched the back of his head, looked down the driveway, and muttered something we couldn’t hear.

Then, he waved.

Not at us. Not at anyone, really. Just a slow, awkward silent wave like he was sending off a ghost.

“Jesus,” Eli whispered. “He’s so weird.”

The door shut. Porch light off.

We exhaled.

“I told you he was nuts,” Shane said. “Owen says he talks to himself all the time.”

We went back to the basement.

The basement had no windows, no clocks, and no sense of time—just flickering light from the TV and the occasional mechanical gasp of the box fan failing to do its job. By the time we came back from the first prank run, it was like the air down there had gone stale. The laughter came easier than it should’ve, loud and forced, like we were trying to scrub something off ourselves we didn’t yet have the words for.

Caleb tossed his shirt into the corner, crackling open a warm energy drink that fizzed like static.

“Okay,” Caleb grinned. “Who’s next?”

Eventually, Caleb turned to me.

“You haven’t gone yet.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a dare. And it landed squarely between my ribs.

I stood up and grabbed the flashlight. It flickered, just barely, when I shook it.

The air outside was heavier than I remembered. The neighborhood was still, unnaturally so. Not a single car on the street. Not a single breeze in the trees. The sky above looked low and swollen, clouds like bruises spread across the stars.

It was my turn. Half-dared, half-shoved into it. 

The grass was overgrown and wet with dew, and my feet made that horrible squish-snap noise that felt like it would give me away. I hit the bell and turned to run but—

The door opened. Too fast.

Frank Dorel stepped out, slower this time, but focused. His eyes tracked something—me? the road?—and I ducked hard behind the side of the porch. I could hear him breathing, just around the corner. The screen door creaked. He hadn’t gone back inside.

He was standing there.

I held my breath so long my head went light. Behind me, the yard hummed with bugs and sprinklers ticked from Ruby’s house, the prettiest girl in our grade.

Then, he laughed.

Not a full laugh, just a dry chortle. Like he remembered the punchline to something from last week. His feet moved, bare on concrete, and I saw his shadow swing back toward the door.

I sprinted.

Didn’t care about being seen, didn’t care about the noise. I cleared the steps, the cracked driveway, hit the hedge and crashed through it shoulder-first, scraping my arms on something thorny. Shane grabbed me and yanked me down.

“You’re such an idiot,” he hissed.

“He saw me,” I whispered.

But when we peeked back across the street, the porch was empty again.

And the door was shut.

Caleb was giddy. “We’re doing it again. Everyone has to go.”

We played it like a game because that’s what boys do when fear shows up wearing something familiar. We mock it. We laugh in its face. And then we do it again.

One by one, we made the run.

I stayed back. I watched the house. Something in the way that light burned—low and flickering—reminded me of the dying fluorescent in my dad’s bathroom, the one that buzzed like it was shorting out, like it wanted to go dark but couldn’t.

Shane cursed when he slipped on the walkway. Eli tripped on the curb on his way back. Caleb went again just to prove a point. The porch light flicked on every time—but Frank never shouted, never chased.

Until the last run.

Trevor.

He went slow. Too slow. Half-joking. Half-scared.

He knocked, two sharp taps, and turned.

The door exploded open.

Frank Dorel didn’t step out.

He lunged.

Naked.

Completely, horrifyingly naked, pale skin waxy under the porch light, feet smacking the concrete as he came barreling down the steps, arms stiff at his sides like a broken marionette.

We screamed. I don’t remember who yelled first, maybe all of us at once. Trevor shrieked and dove sideways into the yard, tripping on a sprinkler and sprawling face-first in the grass.

Frank didn’t stop.

He tore across the yard like a man possessed. Not fast, but deliberate, like every movement had been predestined for him. Eyes wide. Mouth open. And there was something behind the expression. Not anger, not fear. Just a blankness. A hollowness. Like the person inside him had stepped out for a while and left the body on autopilot. It didn’t sit right and it was vaguely inhuman.

We ran.

The street blurred under our feet. I remember thinking we are going to die. Not as a metaphor. Not as drama. Just a cold, certain thought as real as the pavement underfoot.

The gate was too far.

I could hear him behind us—panting now, guttural sounds pushing out of his throat like he was choking on words he couldn’t say. I hit the latch, shoved it open, and everyone poured through, limbs tangled, Shane sobbing.

But Frank didn’t stop.

He kept running, right past the gate.

Right toward Caleb Morrison’s house.

Mr. Morrison had the porch light on. He was still in his robe, watching the late-nite news.

He looked up, blanched.

Frank ran straight to the door and banged on it—open-handed slaps, wet and loud. He was muttering something now. Not words. Just noise.

Mr. Morrison stood still, the hose still running. Then, “Frank?” Like he wasn’t sure if it was a man or a ghost.

Frank paused.

Then started crying.

Just a low, hitching sound. Shoulders shaking. He turned and walked away, bare feet leaving dark marks on the sidewalk.

We watched from the fence.

Nobody said anything.

Later, after we’d scattered home and pretended nothing had happened, I snuck in through the side door and crept up the stairs without making a sound. I didn’t want to see my parents. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. My legs still felt rubbery, and the back of my neck tingled like the air around me hadn’t settled yet.

I lay in bed with the blanket pulled to my chin, ears tuned to the silence. No one called.

We wouldn’t talk about it. Not that night, not the next.

As I laid staring at the ceiling I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Frank Dorel wept.

Not like someone in pain.

Not even like someone ashamed.

It was quieter than that. A leaking, broken kind of sound, like he didn’t know it was happening, like the tears weren’t his to control. And for some reason, that stuck with me more than the chase, more than the nakedness, more than the screaming.

Because it meant something was wrong. Not just with what he’d done, but inside him.

It was the thing that clung to me the most.

Because if a grown man could run naked into the night, banging on a neighbor’s door, not for help but for witness, and cry like that—

Then maybe the world wasn’t as solid as I thought it was.

Maybe something had already cracked.

And maybe we’d knocked on the door of something we weren’t supposed to see.